Shelf Life
by FurLicker
Summary: During the last night of a field exercise, 3rd Squad brings their newest members up to speed on an old campaign. A sequel to 'Horror Vacui' (though technically taking place before it) and told in the same style.
1. Chapter 1

**Content Advisory: swearing, violence, death, implied self-harm**

Note: Also! If you're interested in Stormtrooper fics or just really well written, thoughtfully constructed fic in general, please check out **And Then There Were None** by **Glory-To-Our-August-King** , it's a really fantastic piece which follows FN2187/Finn's squad in the aftermath of his desertion.

* * *

"What do we need a fire for?" FN2457, her arms half full of branches, wanted to know. She had kept her mouth shut with the rest of the squad around, but now that it was just her and the Old Man, she decided to risk it. "We've got the thermal generator."

"Generator isn't much good in the open," said Thirteen, "Heat goes straight up."

"But we have the tent?"

"Loaded it up with the rest of the equipment this morning. Extraction exercise was supposed to be personnel only."

The extraction exercise was _supposed_ to have been hours ago, the close of a ten day FTX, but due to a miscommunication, as their superiors had phrased it, the ships would not be available until the following morning, leaving their company and the rest of 2nd Battalion to weather the brittle Starkiller night in the open. They were in little danger; the black thermal weave they wore beneath their armor kept in enough body heat to keep them from freezing, but as Seven was finding out, the gap between not freezing to death and actually being warm was a wide one, and the wind off the tundra had an edge like a vibrodagger.

Something in her manner must have betrayed her misgivings, because he added, "Won't be so bad. Fire will take the edge off. And tomorrow morning we'll be back on base - hot food, hot showers..."

"Unless there's another 'miscommunication." Seven could have bitten her tongue, she was normally better at keeping her thoughts to herself; she was only a few months out of training and new to the unit, it wasn't her place to comment on the way things were. More than that, it wasn't _safe_. These weren't her old squadmates.

She braced herself for a rebuke, but Thirteen just laughed. "You're learning fast."

The praise was half in jest, but Seven smiled despite herself. They were heading back, cutting across the tundra, they had the wind to their backs this time, pushing them along.

"Keep an eye out for moss. Good fire starter."

"So is Niner's D-93."

Thirteen laughed again. "Only if you want to spend the night huffing conflagrine."

Seven grinned. "Is that it?" she asked, pointing to a feathery patch of grey on the ground several yards away to their left.

"Yeah, that should work. Don't need much."

She dropped her armload of wood and clawed up several handfuls. It looked alive, but felt dry and brittle. That had to be a good sign.

F Company had pulled back from the tree line by the time they returned; they found their squad sheltered where the dip of the terrain and the roots of a fallen tree gave a little cover from the wind. Eight-One slid over, making room for Seven against the tree bowl. Thirteen dropped his armload of wood in the growing pile and pulled off his helmet, coughing as the cold air hit his lungs.

"Alright, Old Man?" Four-Five was only half teasing.

"Yeah. 'Course." But he was breathing rather more heavily than their brief exertion warranted, and his face, as he sank to the ground beside them, was lined with exhaustion. Twenty-Six was watching him with that hull piercing stare of hers, but he avoided her eyes, and Seven pretended not to notice as he pulled a small bottle out of his pack and tossed back one of the pills. He pulled out something else as well, turning it over in his hand with a sad sort of fondness, before tossing it to Tree-Four who was busy constructing a tent shaped mess out of sticks.

Niner let out an exasperated curse and reached for his Incinerator, "We'll be permafrost before you finish with that, just let me-"

" _No,_ " Tree-Four cut him off. "Pass me some of that moss, will you , Sev?"

"You can eat that, you know?" remarked Dubs as Seven handed a clump to Tree-Four.

"Really?" Seven plucked a stray piece out of the snow at her feet and popped it in her mouth. She was hungry and eager for anything which broke the monotony of ration bars which they'd been subsisting on for the past week and a half.

She realized her mistake almost at once. It was bitter as poison and so sharp tasting that it seemed to suck all the moisture out of her mouth. She spat it out, retching and coughing, but the bitterness only got worse.

Someone pressed something into her hand. "Chew on that, it'll cut the taste." She recognized Thirteen's soft undertone and bit down on whatever it was, and something strong and medicinal tasting flooded her mouth. It wasn't particularly pleasant, but it doused the caustic taste of the moss at least. "What the hell?" she gasped when she could breathe again.

The other were still laughing. Four-Five had collapsed sideways in the snow.

"Take it easy," Twenty-Six said mildly, "It's happened to just about all of us."

"At least you spat it out," added Tree-Four.

"Unlike this idiot," Dubs elbowed Zero. "Swallowed a whole handful before he figured it out."

Tree-Four finished arranging sticks and pulled out the item Thirteen had given her; a lighter, Seven realized, as a small tongue of blue flame emerged from the top. There were numbers crudely scratched into its metal shell, but she could only make out the last two: a five and a zero.

"Ah, leave it, I'll light it up," Niner protested.

" _No!_ " chorused Tree-Four and Zero in unison.

"Can't cook on it if you spray it with that shit," added Zero, scooping snow into a metal cup.

Niner scowled, but the prospect of hot food was ultimately more persuasive than the prospect of setting things on fire.

They all crowded closer as the flames licked up through the branches, the light was nearly gone and the temperature dropping like a stone. Seven held out her hands; she could feel the warmth through her armored gloves.

Zero had nested several metal cups full of snow among the branches at the edge of blaze. The snow had just about melted now and the water was beginning to heat. They had all pooled their ration bars and Seven watched as Zero broke them into pieces and began to stir them into the cups of water. The resulting mush was hardly appetizing, but at least it was hot.

It was too hot in fact, but they were all of them too hungry to be cautious. Eight-One passed the cup to Seven, gasping out a curse as she sucked air into her scalded mouth. Seven grabbed a handful of snow and added it to the cup.

"Now why did none of you idiots think of that?" demanded Dubs, nursing a burnt lip.

Seven grinned and swallowed a steaming spoonful, before passing it on to Thirteen.

Niner sniffed at the contents of his own cup and grimaced. "I have _not_ missed your cooking, Zero."

"Never stopped you eating it."

"You know," remarked Tree-Four, "This doesn't taste nearly as bad as I remember."

"Water's too clean," laughed Thirteen. "Not enough rust and pipe silt in it."

There was a snort from Twenty-Six. "That wasn't rust."

"What?"

"It wasn't rust. Those pipes weren't metal. Not the water ones, anyway."

Thirteen stared at her. "Then what the hell was that red shit?" he demanded, half horrified, half laughing. "Why didn't - You're only telling me this _now_?"

Twenty-Six was trying to hold a straight face, but her eyes were laughing. "You were happier thinking it was rust."

"What was it Six used to say? Something about needing delusions to survive?" teased Zero.

"Yeah," snorted Dubs, "Like Niner's delusion that he can shoot straight." She twisted sideways with a triumphant cackle as the other trooper sent a handful of snow hurtling harmlessly past her shoulder.

Zero grinned, "You know what they say about Flamers."

"Ah, go to hell," Niner scowled, grabbing the cup from Zero and swallowing a sullen spoonful of the hot mush.

Seven tried to smother her amusement. "Where was that? The red water?"

There was a pause and then Twenty-Six said, "Jelucan,"

Niner spat.

Seven hesitated. "What's Jelucan?"

"Frozen piece of rock at the ass end of the galaxy."

"Low-tech planet. There was a rebellion there a couple years back," Twenty-Six clarified.

Dubs scraped at the bottom of her cup, trying to scrounge another mouthful. "You think Starkiller is cold and miserable? You should have seen Jelucan."

"Heavy, damp sort of cold, though," added Tree-four, shifting a little closer to the fire, "Not like here. Nothing ever dried out."

"Messed with the blasters something awful," Zero muttered.

"That's how A-One got it, remember?" Dubs had given up on whatever residue remained in the cup. "First one through the door, he'd have had the bastard too, only his blaster choked. Next thing he's on the floor with a hole burning through his guts."

Niner's lip curled. "Figures it would be the one Jelk with a proper blaster, not one of those damned slug throwers most of 'em carried."

"He always did have shit for luck."

There was silence for a moment.

"Wasn't so bad in the beginning," said Zero, "First month or so they kept us moving, cleaning out towns, fortified positions, anywhere the rebels had a foothold. Then they dropped us in Hull. Big, old mining and refinery town. 'Town.' More like a giant scrap heap than anything else."

Seven inched a little closer to the fire, listening as the others chimed in with details. It sounded like no place she'd ever heard of - mountains made from buildings, fashioned from scavenged scrap, jammed together, one on top of the other, listing, tumbling down, rock slides of sheet metal and dust, and for their peaks, soaring refinery towers, choked with exhaust. She pictured rain and cold, and fire belching from black holes in the earth and rivers running dark with refinery tailings.

"Place was a tactical nightmare," Zero continued, "Oh! Remember - Was it you, Thirteen, with the grenade? And Five-Oh? Remember?"

Thirteen's mouth twisted into a wry half smile. "You mean with that repeater?"

He remembered.


	2. Chapter 2

The wall an inch from his face exploded, spraying shards of concrete as Thirteen pressed himself into the cover of the jutting building. They'd been trying outflank a repeater which had 1st pinned down in the streets to the south, and walked straight into a sniper.

 _Alright?_ Five-Oh tapped the side of his throat and Thirteen flashed a quick thumb's up. He made the sign for a grenade launcher, pumping a cupped hand along the underside of his blaster, and a moment later Six appeared at the mouth of the alley.

 _Sniper. Two blocks. Right. Fourth level._ He made the signs in quick succession.

Six touched two fingers to his visor - _received and understood._

Thirteen shut his eyes, shallow, rapid breaths hissing through his nostrils. One second. Two. He tapped his shoulder - _Ready_ \- and from the other side of the street he saw Six triple check his weapon and do the same. _Ready._

 _Go_. Thirteen twisted out from cover, firing as he moved. He got off two shots before he saw the flash; faint, hardly visible, not like a blaster. The flash and then the booming crack. Like a storm, lightening first, then the thunder, so close together it must be right on top of them, he thought absurdly as the slug tore through his neck. He heard the thump of Six's over-under and the top corner of the building blew skyward, showering the street below with flames and debris, and then he was collapsing back against the wall with Six's triumphant whoop filling his helmet.

He was laughing, pure adrenaline fueled elation, but his heart was beating impossibly fast and his legs had turned to water. He pawed gingerly at his neck, half an inch more to the left and he'd be bleeding out in the street.

Twenty-Six and Five-Oh emerged from the alley then, Twenty-Six taking point this time with a curt, "Check him," to Five-Oh.

Five-Oh ignored Thirteen's attempts to wave him off, shoving him back against the wall and tugging his neck stock out of the way until he was satisfied the slug had only grazed him. He gave the back of Thirteen's hemet a sharp smack. _Had me worried for a second_.

Still half laughing, Thirteen gave him a shove and they moved to fall in behind Twenty-Six. They took the left side of the street and Tree-Four's team the right, travelling in columns.

The ground sloped upwards until they could hear the repeater sputtering just ahead of them. There were no doors in this side of the building and the windows had been hastily bricked up. One of Zero's charges made quick work of them, tearing through the crumbling mortar like paper.

Thirteen dived through the breach after Twenty-Six, his sights snapping from corner to corner as he fought to see through the billowing dust and gloom.

"Stairs front."

"Door right."

But no one fired back. The room was empty save their own lurching shadows as the light poured in behind them. They started towards the stairs with Five-Oh and Six at their backs, Twenty-Six waving Tree-Four's team towards the door.

Thirteen kept tight behind her, feeling the stairs shuddering under their weight as he scanned the landing overhead. They came under fire as soon as their helmets broke floor level, slugs slamming into the wall behind them, cracking against their armor. There were three hostiles. Three shots, three kills, it as over in a matter of seconds.

There was a soaring, electric sort of high which went with it; not the killing, but the combat itself. This was his natural element. He felt at home in it in a way he had never felt in a physical place; the whole world shrunk to a single moment, a single space, immediate, clear, manipulable. It made sense, _he_ made sense. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation to his movements now; he was certain, precise, this was what he was made for.

They moved from the landing into the hallway, a sharp kick sent the first door splintering inwards. Thirteen peeled left behind Twenty-Six. Movement, weapon, hostile, all registered in the split second it took to sight in the first target. Thirteen fired, took down one, two, there was a third on his knees; Thirteen was aware of hands in the air, weapon on the floor: surrender. He fired and the body slumped forward. Prisoners were not part of their objective.

Outside in the hallway he heard Five-Oh's repeater open up. A body was sprawled over the threshold of the next room. They moved in, Thirteen's sights snapped to two huddled figure, no weapons, a man - boy - and a small child. The scanner came up clean. Non-combattants. Clear.

They cleared a third room - empty - and a fourth - two kills, then headed for the third level. Again they met resistance at the landing; one of them armed with a blaster which would have looked more at home in a museum. A short burst from Five-Oh's repeater brought her down and her comrade appeared to have second thoughts. Twenty-Six caught him with a bolt between the shoulders as he fled.

They split on the landing, Twenty-Six and Six taking the passage straight ahead and Thirteen and Five-Oh taking the hallway on the left. The rooms in the left corridor were empty, save for supplies and several wounded whom they left dead.

They could hear the repeater barking out from the room at the far end and flattened themselves against the wall on either side. Between bursts they could hear voices and mixed rifle and blaster shots. Thirteen pulled a grenade from his belt and Five-Oh nodded, shifting position. He held out a hand, counting down. _Two. One_ \- Thirteen armed the grenade. _Breach_.

Five-Oh kicked in the door, flinging himself back behind the cover of the wall as Thirteen lobbed the grenade over the threshold.

There was a shot, startled cries, and then the wall at their back exploded outwards, metal and concrete hammering them to the floor, and the last coherent thought Thirteen had before the ceiling collapsed on top of them was that this wasn't the way it was supposed to work.

When he came to, Twenty-Six was shouting at them over the coms and everything hurt. He heard Five-Oh's voice close by, a groan and then a shaky laugh, "Well, shit. That wasn't up to code."


	3. Chapter 3

There was laughter around the fire. To hear Zero tell it they'd brought just about the whole building down.

Thirteen shook his head. "That's nothing. There was a raid, what, a couple days later? We'd cleared the first floor, were heading up the stairs and a grenade drops out of the sky right on top of us. Five-Oh _catches_ it. _Throws it back!_ Blows a whole roomful of the bastards to pieces."

He was grinning, his quiet face suddenly animated and even Twenty-Six's mouth quirked appreciatively. Seven had never met Five-Oh, he'd been killed shortly before she was assigned to their company; but she'd heard stories, almost invariably they involved something catching fire or exploding.

"Yeah, things pretty much went to shit after that though," Zero continued, "Rest of FN pulled out, left us there to rot, the whole 2nd Battalion. Like I said, the place was a disaster. No kind of order to the streets, no defined borders, and then the mining tunnels, you couldn't control who came and went, I mean, hell, we _tried_ , but it didn't make a damn bit of difference. Confiscated weapons, made - I dunno, felt like there was a raid every other day in the beginning, and there were still enough guns kicking around for the Jelks to take pot shots at our patrols every damned day. And explosives, shit, with the mines right there? Absolute nightmare."

Eight-One's brow creased in a quizzical frown. "I thought armor deflected slugs?"

"Depends on the slug," said Niner, "A high density core can punch straight through."

"Plus," added Zero, "They learned pretty fast to aim for the black."

"Or the helmet. Just ask magnet head over here -" Tree-Four gave Thirteen a playful swat.

"Careful, Tree," laughed Zero, "He's only got a couple brain cells left up there."

Dubs smirked suddenly. "They nearly did for Niner that way once, right in over the edge of the breastplate, remember that?"

There was a spluttering curse from Niner which made it clear that he had _not_ forgotten, and the sudden, awkward set of Thirteen's shoulders suggested that he wished very much that he would.

"What happened?" asked Eight-One.

They all glanced at Niner who grumbled and swore and finally relented, telling the story in his own gruff, profane way.

"So we're out on patrol, right?…"


	4. Chapter 4

They'd been out on patrol, just like Niner said. Thirteen was walking point. It had just been a routine patrol. And a quiet one, for once. No disturbances, nothing suspicious. They were on their way back to the warehouse where they were quartered, trudging through a drizzle of freezing rain when the narrow street erupted with the sharp, disorienting staccato of gunfire.

Behind him Thirteen heard Six cry out, then a crack so deafening it seemed to come from inside his skull, his head snapped sideways and the next thing he knew he was lying on the ground and Twenty-Six was all but wrenching his arm out of its socket.

His struggled to get his feet under him, slipping in the slush as she hauled him up; he stumbled against her, shoving. " _Go!_ "

He spun back, blinking his vision clear as he returned fire, scrambling back after the others.

Niner was lagging, half dragging, half supporting Six. Thirteen ducked under Six's other arm.

"Take him!" Niner shouted and twisted free, grabbing Six's weapon and priming the over-under. He never got the chance to fire it. Behind him Thirteen heard the choking cry, but he couldn't turn. Blaster fire hissed over their heads as the others tried to cover them, but the half dozen yards between them might as well have been half a league.

There was an inset doorway to their right and he made for that. Six tried to straighten, his hand clapping against Thirteen's shoulder and Thirteen let him go, shoving him towards cover.

Niner was on his knees in the street, blood spitting down the front of his armor. He was struggling to raise Six's rifle. "Leave it!" Thirteen grabbed him under the arm, pulling him up and lunging back towards the cover of the doorway.

They were only a few steps shy when something tore into the back of his knee. Thirteen went down, but all he felt was the shuddering impact, adrenaline blotted out everything else. His body felt hydraulic, mechanical, he couldn't feel anything, his arms as he rolled Niner against the wall seemed to belong to someone else.

There was a concrete bulkhead rising from the street just behind them, it was a little cover if they stayed low.

Thirteen tore off Niner's breastplate, blood was welling fast - too fast - from a tear in his bodysuit along the collarbone. Fumbling for his aid kit Thirteen dug out the bacta spray, mindlessly repeating efficient, recycled phrases into the comm, reporting their status.

The blood wouldn't stop. He spent the whole vial of spray, but it scarcely even slowed. He pressed down on the wound and heard Niner groan; beneath his hands he could feel his chest rising and falling in weak, rapid gasps. Shit. _Shit._

"I can't stop the bleeding!"

"We've got medics inbound," Five-Oh had stayed behind to cover them while the others dealt with the ambush. "Can't you tourniquet it?"

"Around what? His _chest?_ "

"Hang on," It was Six's voice, speaking over them. "Let me-"

"No, just toss me your aid kit. _No!_ Six!"

In his memory it happened with appalling slowness. He saw Six's helmet emerge from the doorway, bright white against the blackened concrete. And for one awful, lingering moment nothing happened. Then the image changed and there was a smoothe, black hole in the center of Six's forehead and the wall behind him was spattered with red. He didn't make a sound, just slumped softly over.

" _Six!_ " The concrete just above Thirteen's head exploded into dust as a volley of slugs buried themselves in the wall. Thirteen threw himself flat, face down in the freezing, black slush, choking on the scream which was trying to claw its way out of his throat.

"Armor piercing rounds!" he managed to get his voice under control long enough to shout into the comm, " _They have armor piercing rounds!_ "

He looked down at his hands, Niner's blood still bubbling between his fingers.

" _Where the fuck is the medic?_ "

He was out of time. Thirteen reached for his sidearm, his breathing almost as ragged and frenetic as Niner's own.

"Thirteen-" Niner stiffened as he felt the muzzle of the weapon press against the wound, his voice weak and slurring, "Thirteen, what are you-"

"I'm sorry. I am so sorry."


	5. Chapter 5

"So there I am. Lying on the ground, bleeding out, and what does this son of a bitch do? _He shoots me!_ Right through the slug hole!"

"What?" Eight-One was incredulous, but Seven was faster on the uptake.

"Did it cauterize it?"

Something in her manner must have appeared a little too eager because Twenty-Six quickly interjected, "Do not get any ideas. That is _not_ how you deal with a torn artery."

"But it worked?" she pressed.

"Still here, aren't I," Niner conceded grudgingly.

Zero laughed. "A week later he gets back from the BAS, first thing he does, walks straight up to Thirteen and punches him in the face."

"Broke my nose," Thirteen grumbled, more rueful than indignant.

On the fire a pocket of sap in one of the logs vaporized with an explosive snap. Seven started, surprised, but she saw Tree-Four physically flinch, and Niner, Twenty-Six and Thirteen's hands all lurch towards their weapons. For a moment it seemed that no one breathed.

Seven stared into the fire, deliberately avoiding eye contact, feeling - not for the first time - as if she had intruded on something intensely private. Then Zero made a comment about the broken nose being an improvement and she could feel the tension break.

She didn't understand.

There were nights when she'd wake to the sounds of a struggle, raised voices, cries - "Go back to bed" was all they ever told her, as if she were just some wide-eyed cadet. The morning brought only hollow eyes and more questions, more than once she'd seen Thirteen with bruises on his throat. He'd insist he didn't remember where he got them - "Just clumsy, I guess" he'd mumble, an awkward apology in his looks. He wasn't much good at lying. There were the sudden silences, or the explosive reactions to the most seeming innocuous things, the questions you weren't supposed to ask, only no one told you because no one talked about them.

She felt as though she were walking on glass and she hated it. Sometimes. At other times - The past ten days she'd almost started to feel at home. It was if she belonged to two different squads. She never knew which she was going to get.

 **xxx**

Beside her Thirteen settled back, unconsciously thumbing the safety on his rifle to be sure it was on. He was not as elastic as he had once been - he could still snap taut in an instant, but it grew more and more difficult to relax again, as if his muscles had difficulty remembering.

He shut his eyes, but he could see the glow of orange through his closed lids, feel the warmth on his face. He remembered the roaring, furnace blast of heat slamming him to the ground, he remembered burning.

His eyes flew open and he dragged the stinging, Starkiller air into his lungs with a soft, sucking gasp. The worst part had been the silence after. At least if there had been screams he would have known they were alive. But there had been nothing. He'd crawled through the rubble and debris, flash blind, feeling his way. His comm link was dead, he couldn't reach them, couldn't reach anyone.

He remembered the low crescendo of voices, gathering itself at his back, the sound muddled and dampened after the shattering roar of the explosion. It was the kind of sound he'd learned to associate with civilians. He twisted round, fumbling for his sidearm - he'd lost his rifle, if one of them had found it, he was dead, he kept expecting the searing shock of a bolt through his guts. He could see shapes, shadows swimming behind the afterimage of the blast. He remembered shouting: frightened, half-coherent threats. He heard someone laugh.

He found Five-Oh first, though he had no memory of extricating him from the metal joist crushing his leg. There were gaps in what he remembered. He'd been informed later that he had sustained a head injury, but he couldn't remember that either.

When he found Twenty-Six he could scarcely process it. She was alive and there was blood, a lot of blood. She looked wrong somehow, felt wrong when he lifted her; it wasn't until he laid her clear of the rubble that he realized most of her right arm had been torn away. And all he could think, in the numb, empty moment before terror came down on him like a cresting wave, was 'what a stupid thing to forget!'. As if misplaced limbs were a commonplace occurrence. As if it were a missing puzzle piece and he simply needed to find it and put it back for her to be whole again.

Thirteen blinked, the faces around the fire lurching into sharp focus. The talk was still of Jelucan.

What were the Jelks like, Seven wanted to know. But the older troopers only glanced at each other with faintly bemused expressions and shrugged. They were just civilians, said Zero as if that explained everything.

Unless they served some immediate purpose, civilians were simply potential threats. There was no substantive difference between a living, breathing, physical person and the red blip on their view screen. Were they armed, were they disruptive, were they moving too quickly, too slowly, were they a threat - that was what they saw. Everything else became static.

But even static could grate after a time. It became distracting, disorienting. It started to drown things out. When you were exhausted from double watches and back-to-back patrols, from loss and half-healed injuries, all the hundred ways the attrition of personnel was felt, from one too many close calls, one too many slugs to the head, one too many bombings, snipers, distress-calls-turned-ambush… it grew harder and harder to tune it out, harder and harder to focus, to distinguish threat from non-threat, 'other' became indistinguishable from 'enemy', until suddenly every face, every movement was hostile. They were surrounded. Every minute of every day. There was a terrible, damoclean sense of waiting, of powerlessness.

But that wasn't what she was asking.

"Oh!" Zero's face scrunched suddenly in concentration, "What about - What was that weird local shit everyone drank there?"

"Kyr-something?"

"Skvyr," Thirteen supplied.

"That's it. That was good stuff."

A spluttering snort escaped Twenty-Six. "Sure, if you want to strip paint!"

"What was it?" ventured Seven.

"Fermented - what? Munyaak milk?"

Seven made a face and Tree-Four burst out laughing. "You don't drink it for the taste, pup."

"What did it taste like?"


	6. Chapter 6

Thirteen couldn't remember the taste, just the feel of it, the burn that stripped its way down his throat and set fire to his guts. After almost six months in Hull, he'd forgotten what it felt like to be warm, Skvyr was the nearest he got. He remembered the roof of the warehouse where they were quartered, the skeletal remains of what had once been an HVAC unit before the building had been abandoned, the searing cold of the metal biting through his fatigues as he huddled, hunched over, a bottle clutched in his numb fingers.

It had been the first clear night in weeks and off to the north, bands of pale, cold light colored the sky. He stared at them without really seeing.

There had been no patrol for their squad that morning, instead they'd had been given a list of names. They weren't told why and they didn't ask. It was nothing new, there had been retaliatory proscriptions from the beginning. But these ones weren't to be killed. Even so it was messy, some of them weren't much more than children and civilians were always particularly aggressive and irrational whenever their young were involved. But that wasn't what kept gnawing at his insides.

He had _wanted_ to kill them. Wanted it so badly that just looking at them made his skin crawl. He'd been nervous, fidgety throughout the whole guard detail, his hand never left his blaster, fingering the trigger guard, flicking the safety off, on, off, on. It would have been so easy. He just wanted them dead. If they were dead, then they were safe, they weren't a threat, if they were dead, nothing bad would happen. If they were dead, he could breathe.

It had been over for hours and he still felt as though something had his chest in a vicegrip. He couldn't focus, couldn't relax. Couldn't shake that pricking feeling between his shoulder blades. He'd drunk the better part of the bottle of skvyr when Twenty-Six found him.

She frowned down at him for a moment, then dropped down opposite him on the fallen trunk of a ventilation shaft.

She looked pointedly at the bottle in front of him. "How much is that?"

Thirteen shrugged and shook his head. Not nearly enough.

"What's wrong?"

He answered with another shake of his head and reached for the bottle. She pulled it away.

"Niner says you're going soft on the civilians."

"Niner can go to hell."

Twenty-Six said nothing, but the challenge hung there in the air between them. It was a game of chicken and they both knew who was going to lose.

He slammed his hand down on the shaft, swiping the bottle to the ground with a splash and a shatter of glass. Twenty-Six had gone perfectly still. Shit. _Shit._ Thirteen ground the heels of his hands against his eyes. "I hate this fucking place."

There was silence for a moment and when Twenty-Six did speak there was an edge of caution in her voice which grated like nails on metal. "They're bound to relieve us before too long."

Part of him knew that she was just trying to reassure him, that she couldn't possibly know, but it was Twenty-Six - she could have said the sky was green and he would have believed her. "You think so?"

"Yeah. I do. But if you pull shit like this every time we get rough with the locals-"

"I'm not-"

" _You're going to wind up in reconditioning_. Again."

Thirteen went quiet.

"Now c'mon back before you freeze to death."

He had little desire to join the others, but his ears ached and he was losing feeling in his hands. He didn't have the energy to argue.

He'd followed her down the stairwell, back to warren of storage crates where they slept on the warehouse floor. The rest of their squad was clustered around heaters, Zero had a small fire going, trying to heat water. Niner glanced over his shoulder as they approached. Perhaps Thirteen imagined the look of disdain in the other soldier's glance, or perhaps not, but Twenty-Six's words still echoed in his head.

He grabbed Niner's shoulder, wrenched him round and swung. He felt the jarring impact as his fist connected, felt the spray of pain shoot through the bones of his hand and up his arm. And then - _for once_ \- it was Niner lying sprawled on the ground and Thirteen standing over him.

"I'm not fucking soft."

Niner surged to his feet, bristling furiously.

"The fuck you are! Call yourself a stormtrooper? You'd never have made it out of _training_ without one of us dragging your ass out of the mud every damn time."

Thirteen lunged, but this wasn't combat, it was anger and hurt, it was sloppy. Niner's fist caught him on the jaw and he stumbled to his knees, spitting blood.

"Look at you! How the hell are you still here?" Niner crowed his incredulity over the top of Twenty-Six's barked order. "It should be Six or A-One or - Fuck, they should've thrown you back in reconditioning months ago! Useless piece of-"

Thirteen had no memory of picking up the pry bar, but suddenly it was in his hand and Niner was on the ground and he was on top of him and he was hitting him, again and again, as hard as he could. There was blood, on Niner's face, on his hands on the pry bar on his clothes, he wanted to kill him, he wanted to feel his skull crush like an eggshell under his hands.

Five-Oh grabbed him round the middle and dragged him off of Niner. He struggled, twisting free and swinging wildly. The pry bar chopped through empty air and the next instant Five-Oh's fist struck his temple. It was like being hit by a repulsor truck. He went down. Tried to rise and fell again.

A shadow fell across him and he tried to lunge to his feet, but a hand caught him by the throat. Twenty-Six' face swam into focus, her eyes like a lightening strike. "Walk away!"

He pulled back, the pry bar falling from fingers that all at once felt numb and disconnected from the rest of him, the last handful of moments replaying themselves in his head, the memory distorted and third person, as if it belonged to someone else.

"Walk away." Twenty-Six repeated, her voice low and hard. It was a command and he obeyed it. It was all he could do not to run. Dubs' voice, dry with weary consternation, broke the silence which fell behind him. "The hell was that about?"

The washroom was empty. Thirteen stumbled against the sink, bracing himself clumsily with both hands. Overhead a single light flickered and buzzed. He twisted the valve and nothing happened for a moment, then the faucet coughed, once, twice and spat a spraying stream of red into the basin.

The water was bitter cold, cutting straight to the bone as he cupped one handful after another and splashed it over his face, the back of his neck, gasping and shuddering at the cold.

 _What the hell was that about?_ Dubs' question echoed in his head and he didn't know the answer. What was wrong with him? Every day that passed he felt less himself. He didn't understand what was happening. He didn't know how to _stop_ it. The mindless, choking anger that twisted his lungs and filled his throat and set his brain on fire. He didn't know where the anger ended and fear began. He was terrified. He was losing control. If he lost control, he was compromised, and if he was compromised….

He wished they could be dropped back in the action. Proper action, the kind that kept them moving. It was simple. It made sense. Or sent back to the ships where everything was ordered and regulated and you always knew where you were and what you were supposed to be doing. Not like here. Nothing made sense here. He'd never felt so helpless. So... _wrong._ It was constant. His squad was the single island of sanity and now he'd violated even that.

 _Get your head straight_ , Twenty-Six had said. _Get your head straight. Or they'll throw you in reconditioning_. Thirteen shuddered. _Call yourself a stormtroooper_? Niner's voice snapped in his head. And he was right. He was a fuck-up. He'd always been a fuck-up. And it was only a matter of time before... Thirteen dragged in a breath, feeling his chest tighten and the acid drip of fear searing through his veins. No. _No_. He grippped the sides of the basin until his knuckles showed white. _Get your head straight_. He sucked in another breath and forced it out again. _Get your head straight_.

"Thanks for that."

Thirteen started violently, twisting round to find himself face to face with Twenty-Six.

"We don't have enough bodies to cover patrols as it is! What the hell is going on with you?"

He tried to turn away, but she cut him off. "I'll have to report it."

"Do I look like I give a shit?"

"Thirteen-" She grabbed his arm as he tried to shove past.

Thirteen swung round on her, grabbing her shoulders and slamming her up against the wall. He wanted to hurt her, wanted to make her feel helpless and scared, he wanted to make her understand, he wanted - He pulled back sharply, snatching his hands away as if he'd been burned. Shit, what was he doing? _What was he doing?_

Her steel grey eyes drilled into him and he flinched away, his horrified gaze burying itself in the dust - anywhere but up, anywhere but her face - his palms swiping unconsciously against his fatigues as if he could erase the feel of her shoulders rigid as ferrumconcrete under his hands. _What was wrong with him?_

"Hey-" Her voice was sharp, firm and he stilled, straightened, responding instinctively to the authority in it. He saw her hand reach out and braced himself for the blow. Instead he felt her fingers brush his shoulder, sliding up to cup the back of his neck. His breath caught sharply, then released all at once as he leaned forward, his forehead jarring against hers, the impact grounding, familiar, safe. And just for a moment everything was right again, for a moment he could breathe, for a moment he wasn't going crazy, for a moment the sense of hurtling headlong towards a cliff disappeared. For a moment. Then she dropped her hand and Thirteen pulled back and the world grew cold and sharp-edged once more.

Twenty-Six watched him carefully. The anger was gone, but she wasn't entirely sure that what had taken its place was any better. She'd heard of fires being put out by opening an airlock before. The air - everything - was sucked out, and there was nothing left to burn. Thirteen looked like that.

"C'mon," she said, "Food should be ready by now." Hunger was practical. It could be understood. It could be fixed. It was a physical hole which could be filled with physical things.

Thirteen hesitated, his hands sketching anxious, uncertain movements. "I won't go back."

Twenty-Six let out a weary breath. 'Back' could mean only one thing. "No one is sending you back."

He looked up at her and suddenly he was twelve years old again and covered in blood and begging her not to let them send him away. And ten years later she was no better equipped to deal with what confronted her.

" _I won't go back_." Beneath the fear, there was a desperate sort of certainty in his face.

She stared at him for a long moment, then looked away. He'd promised he wouldn't do anything stupid, that he wouldn't do anything like that again. But a lot had changed in ten years and it wasn't 'washing out' that terrified him now. She knew what he was telling her and what he was asking. She crossed her arms, deliberately not meeting his eyes. "That's not fair."

Silence fell between them like a stone. She had no idea what they'd done to him in reconditioning, all she knew was the blankness in his eyes when he'd first come back, the way he'd flinched away from every touch, every glance as if they burned, as if everything they were to each other physically hurt. But he'd been alive.

She let out a breath, shaking off the thought. It was cold and she was hungry and Thirteen looked half dead. "C'mon," she said again, checking him firmly with her shoulder as she stepped past. It was the only reassurance she knew how to offer.

They walked without speaking for some minutes, when he finally ventured, "How bad is Niner?"

Twenty-Six snorted. "A skull as thick as his - You'd need an impact driver to do any damage. Mind you, you'll be covering his watches and patrols 'till he's patched up, so don't plan on sleeping for the next few days."


	7. Chapter 7

Snow crunched underfoot as someone approached their camp through the trees. Still outside the circle of firelight, Seven could not recognize the silhouette, but on the other side of the fire she saw Niner suddenly tense. "Incoming," he muttered, touching a fist to his chest to signal an officer.

"Shit, what's he doing back?" hissed Four-Five and Seven felt her stomach tighten, that could only mean one person.

They scrambled to their feet, saluting as the light illuminated the visor of their XO. Seven schooled her face into blankness, suddenly wishing she hadn't removed her helmet. She had only been with them a few months, but it hadn't taken long to figure out that their XO was the sort of officer you went out of your way to salute when his arms were full. Seven preferred to avoid his notice altogether.

"What's going on here?"

Seven hated those sorts of questions - the answer was obvious, which invariably meant it wasn't the one they were looking for.

"Is something wrong, sir?" Twenty-Six replied, her voice so flat and even it could have come from a comm projector.

"You were ordered to pull back, sergeant," he snapped, "There was nothing in those orders about setting fires."

Before Twenty-Six could reply there was a shuffle of snow behind them and their lieutenant's voice said, "The fires were on my instruction, sir. Since the extraction was delayed, I thought we might at least use the opportunity for some basic SERE."

Seven got the distinct impression that the XO was scowling behind his helmet. There was a long, grudging pause. "I see," he said at length. "Carry on then."

He stalked off through the snow and an uncertain silence settled in his wake. No one seemed to know quite what to say, not even the lieutenant. To react, to show gratitude would be to acknowledge that he had lied to his superior. The safest thing - for all of them - was not to acknowledge it at all.

So after a moment he said simply, "Just… don't get carried away. We don't want a repeat of what happened on Juno."

Seven noticed smirks tugging at the mouths of several of the others.

"We'll keep it under control, sir," Twenty-Six assured him.

"I'll leave you to it, then."

Seated around the fire once more, Dubs was the first to speak once he had left. "Well, that'll be Twenty-Six in a few weeks."

"The XO or the LT?" Niner snorted a laugh to which Twenty-Six responded with an explicit gesture.

"Making squad leader just wasn't good enough."

"Should we start calling you 'sir' _now_ , or…"

Twenty-Six gave an exasperated curse. "It's just training. Doesn't mean shit."

"It _means_ ," Thirteen ignored the prohibitive glare Twenty-Six directed at him, his mouth quirking in a smile which was not so much forced as determined, "We've got the best damn squad leader in the battalion."

"I'll drink to that," agreed Tree-Four, "Or I will if we ever get back to base."

"Hell of a lot to live up to, Tree," Dubs never missed a chance to needle her team leader about the looming promotion, even if it was only to be a temporary measure, "Think you can handle it?"

"To hell with that. I plan on becoming a vindictive son of a bitch, so plan accordingly."

They settled into an easy silence after that, weariness getting the better of each in turn. The fire burned lower and lower, and every so often one of them would remark that they should get more wood and there would be a mumbled agreement, but no one moved. The occasional snatches of conversation grew harder and harder to follow. Seven kept finding herself unable to recall what had been said just moments ago. She could scarcely keep her eyes open.

She did not recall falling asleep, but she must have, for the next moment she was starting awake. Thirteen nudged her arm, tapping the back of his head.

He must have seen the sleep-startled confusion in her face as she fumbled for her helmet because he added quickly, "You're alright. But these temperatures - you fall asleep without that, you might wake up missing something important."

"Yeah, could end up looking like Dubs," Zero teased, "Or Thirteen."

Dubs rolled her good eye and jammed an elbow into the soft spot below Zero's ribs, eliciting a wheezing yelp. "Shrapnel," was her laconic response to Seven's questioning stare and Seven felt her face go hot.

"Sniper," added Thirteen, "First time in combat." The scar tissue stretched from his cheekbone back beyond where his left ear ought to have been. His gauntleted hand knocked against her helmet and she put it on. Eight-One did the same, settling back against the frozen mass of roots and drawing her knees up to her chest, and a few moments later she was slumping sideways against Seven, fast asleep. Eight-One had always been able to sleep at the drop of a hat. Seven had envied her that, especially in training when sleep was precious. She let her own head droop until it rested against Eight-One's and closed her eyes.

Twenty-Six flicked her wrist display to life, checked the time and then double checked the roster. "Thirteen, Zero - you're up."

There was a groaning curse from Zero. "We're not even supposed to still _be_ here. And it's an FTX, the hell do we even need watch rotations for? There's nothing out there!"

"Think you're missing the point of it being 'training'?" Dubs, half asleep and propped back to back with Niner, drawled.

"Right. Just in case I suddenly forget how to stand around and wait for nothing to happen. We're talking about the _Order_ here."

Twenty-Six gave him a look, slashing a line across her throat with her hand, the universal signal to shut the hell up. "More moving, less talking. You're reporting to Six-Four over in Second."

She watched them disappear into the dark, then pulled on her own helmet and settled back against the tree behind her. Four hours and they'd be back.


	8. Chapter 8

For Twenty-Six, the dream always started out the same way: the open doorway and the certainty of what was going to happen next.

It was their last day on the ground in Hull, though they didn't know it. First Squad had received the report of activity in Sector Five, but they'd been hit hard during a long range patrol the week before and her team had been pulled in to plug the gaps. It was morning and the abandoned tenement building at the edge of the warehouse district looked perfectly ordinary, a patchwork of concrete and sheet metal just like everything else in Hull, it's rusted metal door listing on its hinges. But the sight of it turned her blood to ice.

Her feet carried her forward, the door looming larger with each step. One-Eight and Forty from First disappeared over the threshold just ahead of her before she could stop them. Thirteen was at her shoulder, Five-Oh just behind him.

 _Pull back. Pull back!_ But the words changed shape in her mouth and instead of retreating, she was ordering them into position. She tried to turn, tried to grab them, tried to stop, but her hands stuck to her blaster as if welded there, and her step never so much as hesitated.

She relived each flinching, horrified moment just as it had happened, but without the mercy of ignorance. She marched forward, unable to stop herself. To the threshold. Over the threshold.

If she was lucky, she woke up then, with the blast ringing in her ears and the taste of something burnt and acrid in the back of her throat. But she was rarely lucky.

Sometimes she caught glimpses of Thirteen. Sometimes he was leaning over her, his eyes wide and dark. She'd never seen him look so scared. Not even in training when fear had clung to him like a shadow. She told him to calm the hell down, that she was fine, but he couldn't hear her. He looked so desperately lost..

Other times he was just sitting there, with his eyes closed and his face the color of ash and a tube running from his arm to hers. His hair had started to grow again, the soft brown fuzz matted and stiff with blood.

Then everything changed and she no longer knew where she was. She was lying on her back, surrounded by white; harsh and antiseptic, not the safe, familiar white of their armor.

She wasn't alone. There were figures, moving round her, over her, but she could only make out shapes, and light reflecting off white masks and spidering, metallic arms. It was like trying to see with the sun in her eyes.

Horror seized her, like two hands squeezing her throat. She could not move. All her training, every instinct, every madly firing synapse, every ounce of adrenaline searing through her body, and it all broke against a shell of numb, lifeless muscle. No, not numb. She could feel them. Sometimes human, sometimes mechanical. She was prone, paralyzed, no armor, not even her bodysuit, just bare skin and every touch felt like a violation.

She could not fight it. And that was worse than any of the rest - worse than the pain as their needle sharp fingers drilled into her scalp, as they cut and scraped and peeled away the skin from her arm like the rind of a fruit, as they ripped out her muscles and stuffed wires in their place, worse than the sense of other, of something alien that replaced it, of the knowledge that they had forced something of themselves inside of her. The worst part was not what they did, it was that she could do nothing to stop them. They made her complicit. They made her powerless. And she would wake up choking in terror and rage, her insides twisting in revulsion at her own weakness.

But not that night. Dubs must have kicked out in her sleep, and Twenty-Six lurched awake before she'd even stepped through the door. She sagged back, armor scraping against tree bark, and let out a sigh that was half relief and half defeat, her heart was hammering and her bodysuit felt sticky against her skin. She pulled off her helmet, savoring the shock of the cold air. She was awake, fully awake now, and the dream was rapidly retreating.

She checked the time. Another hour until the watch changed, but she was awake now, might as well make the rounds.

 **xxx**

Thirteen straightened at the sound of footsteps behind him, but it was only Twenty-Six. Out of habit, he made the sign for 'all quiet'. Nothing to report.

She nodded, halting beside him to watch the rippling curtains of green light in the distance. Something was off - the way she moved, the set of her shoulders, she was tense - and he cocked his head to one side in a question, but she shook it off.

Tense or no, he was glad she was there. He tried not to think that soon she wouldn't be. But he could not shake the sense of transience, of urgency, as if his small world was suddenly expanding, its pieces drifting slowly out of reach.

They had faced everything shoulder to shoulder since they were children. He hated the thought of her facing whatever came next with her back exposed. She would be fine, of course. Of course she would.

But still. He was worried.


	9. Chapter 9

She hadn't been the same after Jelucan, after they released her from the hospital with a limb of dead metal and wires. She was Twenty-Six and yet she wasn't. It wasn't the nightmares, the sudden flashes of aggression; those, after a fashion, Thirteen understood. It was the way she held herself, the way she moved, the small things he had known since childhood, almost as intimately as he knew himself, and now suddenly unfamiliar. There was a sense of absence about her which he could not explain, but which he could feel like the scarred hollow of a through-and-through whenever he was near her. The deep stillness which had always been so much apart of her was gone, ripped away from her just as brutally as her arm had been, and in its place a fierce, painful sort of restlessness.

She wasn't sleeping either. And that night neither was he. Things had come to a head during the simulator training that morning, she'd simply stopped in the middle of it and refused to go any farther. They'd made up some excuse about her cybernetic arm malfunctioning, but that would work exactly once. He didn't understand. He'd been trying to talk to her, to get her alone all day, but she'd made sure he never got the chance.

Thirteen listened to her toss and turn in the bunk beside him, and finally throw off her covers and rise.

He found her on the training deck, she had their squad's locker open, but that was as far as she'd gotten and she simply stared at the small pile of equipment without actually seeing it..

"Twenty-Six?"

He saw her stiffen. "The hell are you doing up?" She spoke without turning.

"Couldn't sleep."

Nothing.

"Earlier..." he began cautiously, "During the sim -"

"It's fine," she cut him off, voice taut.

"What happened?"

She shut the locker door, the movement tense and over-controlled, and turned to face him, eyes flashing a warning.

 _Don't_. She moved to step past him, but he caught her arm. That was a mistake. She rounded on him with a snarl, turning his hold against him with a single, savage motion and forcing him to his knees. She wrenched his arm back, bearing down hard on the back of his elbow. She heard him gasp, felt his muscles and tendons straining under her hands, a little harder and his arm would snap like a twig. She held it there just long enough to make her point. _It's. Fine._

She released him and turned away.

Thirteen surged to his feet, grabbing her from behind and throwing her into the wall. _It's wasn't fucking fine!_ She'd frozen up! In the middle of a fucking sim! She'd been _scare_ d. Not anxious, not nervous, _scared_. Of a bunch of fucking pixels and sound bites. Twenty-Six who wasn't scared of anything. _It wasn't fucking fine_. He wrenched her round.

Twenty-Six brought her arm up, jamming her fist into the hollow below his breastbone. She felt him crumple and shoved him away, her knuckles cracking against his cheekbone. Pain sprayed up her wrist and she thrilled to it, fueling the anger in her chest, pure, high octane, explosive. She lashed out again as he staggered, relishing the yielding impact as her metal fist plunged deep into his soft stomach. He dropped his elbows, exposing his throat. She lunged.

Thirteen's back slammed into the lockers, writhing as the metal fingers clamped over his windpipe, wrenching sideways as her other fist slammed into the metal where his head had been, but she still had him by the throat. He tried to kick, to strike out, but Twenty-Six pressed in close, pinning him. Her face was set and unreadable, but her eyes - her eyes were screaming, the rage and pain in them rocking him back like a physical blow. It was like watching someone burn alive from the inside. His body convulsed as her fingers tightened. The room began to spin.

Twenty-Six watched his face, the mingled confusion and pain, the mounting panic as his struggling grew weaker; he was strangling, losing consciousness. She could feel him slipping, feel his life draining away through her fingers. She had complete control.

She let go, stepping back as he collapsed to the floor, gasping and choking. He should have stayed down, but he'd always been stubborn and they'd never been taught any other way. His shoulder caught her in the stomach, a clumsy, unsteady tackle forcing her up against the opposite wall, and she brought her knee up, driving it into his face. _He should have stayed down._ Thirteen reeled backwards, blood streaming down his face. She advanced on him - _he should have stayed down -_ feinted with her left, then swung hard with her right, metal fist hammering his temple, snapping his head to the side. Thirteen went down like a bundle of rags.

She was on top of him then, boot slamming down on his exposed back. She kicked him again, nailing him in the ribs, and again and again. The soft, thudding, hollow sound filling her ears. Thirteen's weak cries had ceased altogether. _Stop_. But the hungry, keening anger kept pouring out of her. She brought her boot down again and again with wild desperation, stomping, kicking. He wasn't moving anymore. _STOP_.

Twenty-Six pulled back sharply, staring at the crumpled figure at her feet as if seeing it for the first time. It was like being shaken awake, only the nightmare was still happening, he was still sprawled there, still unmoving. She felt cold as ice. "Get up," she choked, "Get up!" Thirteen didn't move.

"Damn you, _get up!_ " Thirteen groaned, then stirred, body slowly uncurling and attempting to right itself, his movements clumsy and sluggish. Twenty-Six recoiled.

He dragged his head up as if it were weighted with lead, his wide-eyed, stumbling gaze finding her, his face a mass of blood and swelling bruises. He reached out a hand, but she made no move to take it. She could only stare, feeling again how easily he had gone down, her metal fist cracking against his cheek, feel the give of his stomach, his side, his back as she'd brought her boot down on them again and again.

"Twenty-Six?" he had managed to get to his feet, one hand braced unsteadily against the wall. He reached out again, a bleary sort of pleading in his face. His fingers brushed her arm, and she tore it away, all the rage of moments ago flaring again like fire caught in a gust of wind. She seized his shoulders, throwing him back, slamming him hard against the wall, the metallic fingers of her right hand digging deep into his soft flesh. For a moment she could read fear and pain in his face and felt a flicker of satisfaction and she hated herself for it.

She dropped her hands, stepping back, braced, defiant, daring him to try again. He was swaying, blinking as though he couldn't see straight. He looked as though he were about to fall, but instead Thirteen flung himself forward. The sudden aggression caught her off guard, and before she could react his hands were around her neck, grabbing the back of her head, slamming his forehead against hers so that lights danced in her vision.

Cursing, she thrust back, pinning him against the wall with her weight. But this time there was no fear in his green eyes, just helpless understanding. Twenty-Six felt as though her heart were in her throat, as though she were choking on it, as though she were going to vomit it out. She screwed her eyes shut, fighting it down, and for a moment the only sound was their own labored breathing; she could feel each warm puff of air as he exhaled, and smell the cloying reek of sweat.

She dropped her face to his shoulder, pressing hard into the smothering, dark stillness of it and felt his hands slip to her back, his arms wrapping round her shoulders, crushing her against him. She bristled, her back straining against his arms, but did not try to pull away. She had forgotten stillness, forgotten how. But his arms held her like metal clamps, holding her in place, holding her still, and somehow that kept her heart from bursting against the walls of her chest, and the anxious, acidic torment which never let her rest quieted a little, and for the first time in weeks she felt like she could breathe.

He didn't know how long it was before he felt her shoulders loosen. She sagged into him and he felt his body go slack with relief. Had it not been for her weight on his chest and the wall at his back, he would have crumpled to the ground.

"I'm so fucking tired." Her voice was muffled by his shoulder and Thirteen squeezed his arms a little tighter, his head, suddenly too heavy to hold up, resting against hers. Moments passed by the handful and she finally raised her head, her grey eyes dull with exhaustion, but quiet. They passed over his face as he let his arms fall to his sides, taking in the bloody, swollen mess.

"You should go to the infirmary."

Thirteen shook his head and the motion set the room spinning. He tried not to grimace. "Nothing they'll do that I can't do with a med kit."

Her stern gaze held his for a moment, but it was true, for the most part. You had to be dying before they'd pay any real attention to you. "Alright," she relented, "But you're going on sick call in the morning."

He made a dismissive sound and pushed away from the wall. "M'fine."

"Wasn't a suggestion," she retorted, catching his arm as he stumbled and nearly fell.

He leaned heavily against her, struggling ineffectually to get his feet under him again. "Sorry."

Her arm tightened round his waist. "Shut up."

When they reached their quarters, he tried to turn towards the bunks, but Twenty-Six steered him instead towards the lavatory.

He mumbled something, of which the only word she could make out was 'sleep', but Twenty-Six ignored him.

"Sit," she commanded, letting him sag to the floor. The med kit was on the wall by the door and she pulled it off, returning to kneel in front of Thirteen. She was all business now. There was something cathartic about visible, physical injuries.

Thirteen reached into the case as she opened it and fished out a small bottle, shaking the rattling, white capsules into his palm. They did not let them have the good pain meds, that was perhaps the one benefit of a trip to the infirmary, but these were better than nothing. He crunched the handful of pills between his teeth before swallowing them. His empty stomach would not thank him, but his head was aching too badly for him to care overmuch.

He turned his head, eyes slipping closed as she reached out to brush a thumb across the angry, wine dark bruise swelling over his cheekbone, probing carefully. Thirteen's brow crinkled sharply, nostrils flaring with a short, hissed intake of breath.

"Might be broken."

"S'alright," he smiled without opening his eyes. "Didn't really need my face for anything anyway."

She pulled the tube of salve out of the kit, squeezing a bead onto her thumb and smearing it over his cheekbone and up around the edge of his eye socket. His nose wrinkled at the stinging, chemical smell of it, reminding her of the way he used to screw up his whole face when they were children. It was almost like old times, sitting cross-legged, face to face on the lavatory floor in the cadet barracks, patching each other's cuts and bruises, it had become a ritual between them.

"Earlier...During the sim run..." she began haltingly, borrowing his words. Her fingers probed the ugly, mottled swelling over his ribs. "That building..." She heard the sharp, sucking breath and felt his muscles tense in pain. Broken, then. Or cracked. She let out a breath, reaching into the kit for a bacta patch. "That building," she repeated, her attention focused on the thin package in her hands. For something ostensibly for use in emergencies, they were damn near impossible to open. Her metal hand was useless.

"On Jelucan," she bit out the words, "Hull. The tenement..." Her nails found the gap between the pieces of plastic and she peeled it back, clamping one corner between her teeth and tearing away the top layer of packaging. "The tenement. That last-" She broke off, fingers picking desperately at the edge of the plastic covering the adhesive side of the patch. The words were like rotting timbers, any moment they would give way beneath her, and she'd be back there, watching it happen all over again. "That- That last - The- _Fucking piece of shit_ ," she flung the patch down, the words choking in her throat.

There was silence, then the soft shuffling as Thirteen picked up the bacta pad, his hands fidgeting awkwardly. His words, when he spoke, were as halting and uncertain as her own. "The sim building... and that tenement..." It wasn't a question, not really. It wasn't quite a statement either. It was just two places.

Twenty-Six nodded. Her face was tight, she didn't look at him. She picked up the tube of salve, fingering it anxiously, needing to focus on something, anything. She skimmed the printed label - WARNING: FOR EXTERNAL USE ONLY - the same line over and over again, but all she could see was the doorway, the dark shadows beyond the threshold.

His hand touched her wrist and she stiffened, eyes flicking up sharply. She was ready to fight. But his gaze caught and held hers, firm and steady like a hand clasp.

He didn't say he understood, he didn't say it would be alright, he didn't say it would get better. He said, "Your knuckles are split."

"Your ribs are broken," she snapped back, but she let him tug the tube of salve from her fingers. She was too tired to argue, too tired to care. She let out a long, slow breath, feeling the quivering tension in her muscles lessen a little. She couldn't relax, but here, just for the moment, she could let her guard down. She closed her eyes, feeling the familiar grip on her wrist, the damp, stinging scrub of the disposable cloth as he wiped away the drying blood. There was a murmured apology and then the cold smear of salve across her knuckles, burning like acid on the broken skin.

She opened her eyes, watching as he wrapped the bandage tight across her knuckles, her gaze shifting unconsciously to trace the thin, white scars which crosshatched his forearm. They had faded over the years, you'd hardly know they were there unless you knew to look for them.

The wounds were still there though. So well hidden they were harder to see than the scars, but every so often he'd say something, or she'd catch his face when he thought no one was looking and she knew. 'For external use only,' she thought again of the label on the tube. There were some things all the bacta and pills in the galaxy couldn't heal.

The bacta patch draped forgotten across his knee as he tied off her bandage and tossed the materials back into the kit. Twenty-Six picked it up, glancing pointedly at his chest as she peeled away the protective covering. He fumbled with the hem of his shirt, tugging it up over his ribs. The adhesive was fresh and stuck easily to the skin, no need to jury rig it with salve and bandages - small mercies.

"C'mon," she said when it was finished, pushing to her feet and reaching out a hand. He blinked up at her, one eye was swollen shut and the other he couldn't seem to keep open. He caught her hand, fingers slipping from smooth metal to textured sensor pads, but he didn't try to rise, tugging instead for her to sit back down.

Twenty-Six leaned back, pulling his arm taut. "Get up."

 _Please?_ She could read it in the quirk of his brows, in the way he squeezed the pressure pads, in every damn line of his body.

Twenty-Six relented, sinking down beside him. "You need to sleep," she told him with weary exasperation. But she had no more desire to return to the darkened barracks room than he did.

She felt him relax. "D'you remember the time... That night after... In training... When we all slept on the floor by the showers?" His voice was muddled and quiet, his shoulder pressing against hers.

She remembered. How could she forget? The night after Psych Quals, when they were so afraid of the dark they slept in the lavatory where the lights stayed on.

"Yeah, I remember," she sighed, leaning her head against his and closing her eyes. They had slept in a pile, curled together, sprawled on top of one another.


	10. Chapter 10

Thirteen's watch was over and they were headed back to their camp. Twenty-Six walked without speaking. She didn't look at Thirteen. She didn't need to to sense the lag and stiffness in each step. They were all tired, but this was more than that. It was unacceptable.

She had thought he'd be better by now. He said the tablets he'd got from the infirmary were helping: he wasn't blacking out anymore. But he wasn't the same. Sure, he kept up, he made it through the exercises - he'd always been a stubborn bastard - but he could scarcely stand by the end of it. He was tiring, getting winded much faster than the others. And he was hurting. It was easy to hide under their armor, but she could always tell. There was a reason the new kids called him "Old Man". But what did she expect? The rebels had put a hole through his chest. The sawbones had said he was fit to return to duty, but they all knew those stress tests were so much bullshit.

He'd made it through the FTX, but what happened when the scales tipped against him just a little more? What happened when he couldn't keep up? Couldn't stay awake? The Order had no use for dead weight.

His plated elbow clacked against her armor, the blow light, uncertain. _Are you alright?_

She didn't respond for several steps, then she rounded on him, shoving him back hard into a tree. "The hell are you going to do when we're on the line?" she demanded, her voice muffled without the audio projectors.

"What?"

" _What are you going to do?_ " She thrust her face into his."And don't tell me it's the thin atmosphere, we're all breathing the same shit."

"Wh... I'll be fine, it's-"

"Fine?" she cut him off fiercely."You call this fine? You collapsed yesterday!"

"I _tripped_."

"You could barely walk a straight line!"

There was silence for a moment, then, "It was a long day, that's all."

"I'm not going to be here much longer." _I won't be here to watch your back_.

She was glad she couldn't see his face, but she could read his sudden stillness just as clearly.

"I know," the response was barely audible. He shifted, straightened a little, and the sudden, forced lightness in his voice hurt worse than any of the rest. "But someone's got to show those academy pups how it's done."

Twenty-Six turned away. She wanted to punch him. He was trying to make things easier and somehow that just made it worse.

He pushed away from the tree, moving to stand so that he was facing her again, his head tilting sharply so that his visor cracked against hers. _It'll be alright._

"I'll be fine. We both will."

She gave him another shove, lighter this time. "You fuckin' better be."

A soft, muffled huff of a laugh came from inside his helmet, "Yes, sir _._ "


End file.
